The Eccentric
by damalur
Summary: London's only consulting magician acquires a flatmate. - Sif/Loki, fusion with BBC's Sherlock.


**Notes:** Sherlock fusion with a little help from Hiromu Arakawa and Garth Nix. Many thanks to Odylism for the beta!

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**The Eccentric**

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She was home from the war, and the war was home with her. Three weeks on Fandral's truly minuscule sofa had done her already aching bones no favors; the little untroubled sleep she managed was of such poor quality that she now drank ten cups of coffee a day. Her nerves sparked like lightning, wire filaments of pure electric sensation.

It was Val Parrington who finally introduced her to a better living situation—Val, old friend, career soldier, and supreme connective hub, who was home on leave and perhaps the only person keeping Sif sane. _"He's the brother of a friend,"_ Val said, _"but if you can stand him, the rooms are reasonable."_

"If I can stand him?"

_"You'll see what I mean. Look at the rooms first—here, I'll get the address and text it to you."_

"Thanks," said Sif. Her palm was sweating against the plastic shell of her phone.

_"Not necessary. Did you take your painkillers?"_

Sif sighed. "Val—"

_"Take something. Aspirin, at least."_

"Fine. Night."

_"Don't hang up on me because I—"_

Sif took half a tablet of Aspirin, went to bed, and couldn't sleep for all her dreams. Fandral never came home; no surprise there. He preferred his bed with a companion in it, and since Sif's stern presence tended to dampen his chances with his preferred pursuits, he had taken to borrowing the companion and a bed both.

The next morning she took her coffee, the other half of the tablet, and a dry piece of toast before making her way to Baker Street. She twisted to ring the bell with her left hand; a woman answered without taking the chain off the door.

"Hi, I'm here to look at the rooms. 221B?"

"Oh yes, darling, just a moment," said the woman through the crack. The door closed momentarily and then swung wide to reveal a slight, elderly person with cat fur all down the front of her jumper.

"Mrs Maggie Selvig, so nice to meet you. You'll be looking to share with himself, then?" She ushered Sif inside. "He's already moved in, of course, gave him a good rate after he drove my husband off—never did like my husband, although the madness was a bit harsh. Oh, dear, don't look so concerned, it was only temporary, and he agreed to everything my lawyer asked. My husband, that is. Don't trip, dear," she added, and Sif dodged the wide-eyed black creature crouched on the narrow staircase.

"I'll just let you in, and you can look around. I don't know where he's got to, always running off, at least when he isn't having a week-long lie-in. Your bedroom would be upstairs, there's a bathroom for you as well, it has an interior window from when we did the renovations but you can hang up some nice curtains. Mind the cats," she added again, and Sif stepped over a lolling gray beast and into the flat.

Someone already had not only moved in, but made himself at home. There was rubbish everywhere: stacks of papers beneath the windows, bits and bobs and bottles all over the kitchen table, books on the spare surfaces, correspondence affixed to the wall with a knife, and the whole room guarded from the mantle by a stuffed magpie.

"What the—?" Sif said, but Mrs Selvig had already left. The cat on the threshold folded its ears back against its skull.

On closer inspection, the kitchen was more or less a working alchemy lab. The sink was stoppered and in it was an inch of viscous, dark fluid that bubbled intermittently; a handful of broken quills were scattered on the floor. "Yours?" she said to the magpie.

"Not his. Phoenix feathers. They blacken when they're plucked without the proper technique—"

She was reaching for the sidearm that no longer sat at her hip as she turned, but her fingers touched only air. "Who are you?"

"The...flatmate?" said the man. "Or, rather, _you_ are the flatmate comma potential." He spread his long-fingered hands and showed her his empty palms; his grin was too wide to be reassuring, and instead brought to mind a crocodile.

"Chambers. Sif Chambers."

"Loki," he said. "So. You are...recently returned from battle, I think. Infantry?"

"Fifth Regiment of Foot," she said automatically, and then, "I'm sorry, but how the hell did you know that?"

"Your aura reeks of it," he said. "Gunpowder, treason, and plot—this thread of black means you have dreams, and the red, ooh, that's nasty. You were wounded in the shoulder, yes? It's done terrible things to your chakra."

"You're a magician."

"A consulting magician, yes." He was dressed in a dramatic coat of burnished mustard, and his eyes were otherworldly.

"That's absurd," she said. "There are only state magicians and private magicians. I've never heard of a consulting magician."

"I'm the only one," he said. "I made it up. There's—just—me." His voice carried no small amount of pride, but there was something manic about that pride, something possessive. "Your term of service was over, yet you reenlisted."

"Yes," said Sif. Her free hand found the back of a chair.

"And then you were shot."

"And then," she agreed, "as you say, I was shot."

"Will you go back?"

"...Possibly," she said.

"Mm. But you haven't decided yet." He was restless; he circled around her and Sif turned with him, to keep him in her field of vision. He halted on the other side of the kitchen table and began rearranging the bottles. "So, Sif, former soldier and potential flatmate. What do you think?"

"I'm beginning to wonder why you want a flatmate. I am no longer wondering why you've had such a hard time keeping one.

He grinned at her again, quick and flexible. "You'll be the first, actually. Well, third, but first I've chosen myself. As for the other—a family member says it's part of my rehabilitation. It suits me to indulge him."

"Does it." Sif began to pace the perimeter of the kitchen herself, to see what he would do—and what he did was nothing. There was no motion to him, no echo of darting action; when she was behind him, he went utterly still.

"I haven't touched the rooms upstairs, if that's what concerns you. And the mess, well. Does it bother you?"

She finished pretended to inspect the oven and turned back to him. "Not really," she admitted. "And the rent is more than reasonable."

"You'll stay?"

"Suppose so," she agreed.

"Excellent," he said. "Oh, that is excellent."

And, surprisingly, it was.

Sif had little enough to move and by the end of the next day was installed in the upstairs bedroom. She worried for a short while that her odd hours would disturb Loki, but he seemed to keep odd hours himself, and by the end of the week they'd already established a routine. Sif would drift through the flat, making tea, staring out the window, and sometimes doing the set of exercises prescribed for her shoulder; she left only to buy groceries and to attend her mandatory therapy sessions.

Loki's occupation consisted primarily of draping himself over the sofa in a series of increasingly artful poses while heaving loud sighs. Occasionally he would shift himself enough to scribble some fancy array on the wall (or the leaves of a book, the shopping list, Sif's physical therapy packet…) or tinker in the kitchen, where Sif was conducting trench warfare to carve out a place for her groceries, but after that first day, she never even saw him _dressed_—he wore old, ratty bathrobes with even older and rattier pajamas underneath.

Late one morning, shortly after she'd been told she could stop wearing her sling, she went downstairs to find Loki absent and an enormously handsome blond man sitting in Loki's chair. The man was sipping tea from a cup that was dwarfed by his hand. Like Loki, his hair was too long to be fashionable, but unlike Loki, he wore it pulled back in a neat queue. His suit was bespoke, his shoes were Church's, and his face was eminently affable.

"Hello," Sif said.

"Ah, you must be Loki's new flatmate," the man said. "Sit down, let me pour you a cup of tea. I'm his brother," he added, as he took the pot from the tea service. (Sif hadn't even known they'd owned a tea service.) "Thor Odinson."

"So that's his surname," Sif said.

Thor grinned. "Yes, he doesn't like to use it. Sugar? Cream?"

"Two sugars, thanks." She shifted one of Mrs Selvig's cats and seated herself in the squishy armchair she was starting to think of as hers. "He never mentions you."

"He wouldn't," Thor said. "I'm in politics, it drives him up the wall. He doesn't speak to our parents at all, though, so I'm thankful that he continues to tolerate me. Loki! There you are."

Loki had already worked himself to a furious sulk; the hem of his bathrobe fluttered at his heels as he stalked into the room. "You're in my chair," he announced.

"Thankfully, I notice that the sofa is completely unoccupied," Thor said. He winked at Sif when Loki turned to fling himself on the sofa.

"What are you doing here, Thor?"

"Tea?" Thor said.

Loki sighed but stretched out a long hand without looking away from the ceiling. Thor made it with two sugars and no cream, Sif observed—just the way she took it herself. How funny.

"You're welcome," Thor said, and passed the cup and saucer to his brother. These Loki balanced on his chest; Sif was beginning to understand the origin of at least some of the dark stains on his pajamas.

They all sipped their tea in silence.

"Mrs Selvig—" Thor started.

"Ugh!"

"Mrs Selvig tells me you haven't taken a case since you moved in," Thor said, talking over his brother's groans of protest.

"What, is she your spy now?"

"She is not my spy. I don't have spies."

"Of course you have spies. You may not call them spies, but that is precisely what they are. I don't need you constantly watching me—in fact, I won't have it." This was all snarled in the direction of the upper northeast corner of the room.

"I still don't know what you think my job is," Thor said, "but my position is and always has been benevolent."

"That's right, you want to save the world. Pardon me for forgetting."

Thor grinned, unaffected by his brother's abuse. "I do want to save the world, and since you are part of it, you should let me call a few universities for you. Let them send you some work. I understand if you don't feel like working with Scotland Yard at the present time, but there are quite a few academic problems that could benefit from your input."

"Boring!" Loki sang. "It's always 'Professor So-and-So wants to know about the effects of third-order thaumaturgy as incorporated into the Grecian style of shapeshifting' when the good professor has never shapeshifted in his life. Spare me."

"Then should I contact DI Bishop?"

Loki snorted. "It's hardly my concern whom you contact." The pronouncement delivered, he steepled his fingers over his tea cup and shut his eyes.

"I wouldn't mind some shapeshifting," Sif said. She hadn't seen Loki do much magic or much consulting, but the arrays and the alchemy made her curious. "In Afghanistan I ran up against some necromatic summonings that changed shape every time you tried to shoot or stab them. They were hard to kill."

"'Disperse' is the proper term; as they were already dead, you could hardly kill them again." Loki's eyes popped open. "Yes, brother, fine, make your phone calls. I suppose I should post a notice on the website, too."

"Isn't that good news?" Thor said, and winked at her again. "Sif, Loki—more tea?"

And that was Loki's brother. Before he left, he thanked her for her service and then slapped Loki in the back of the head when he rolled his eyes.

"I like him," Sif announced, once Thor had gone.

"Of course you _like_ him. Everyone _likes_ him," said Loki. "What about your brother? Is he half as meddlesome as mine?"

"How did you know that I…?"

"Oh, second sight," he said, with such a perfectly straight face she couldn't tell if he was lying.

"He isn't around often—he's in private security—but when he is around, he's even worse. That's the hell of older brothers." She heaved a sigh herself and sprawled back in her chair.

"And what did you do, before you went to war?"

The teapot was lukewarm; Sif thought about getting up to boil some fresh water and decided against it. "Your crystal ball didn't tell you?" she teased. "I have a background in agricultural journalism, although it's been a long time since I had any use for it."

"Soldiering and agriculture. Any parents?"

"The usual number. Both gone."

"Ah," Loki said. There was a moment of silence. Sif was drinking her lukewarm tea and remembering her mother when the cup suddenly warmed in her hands. When she looked over, there was a glint of ghostly green around the tips of Loki's fingers.

"I believe the convention is to say that I'm sorry for your loss," he said.

"Thank you," said Sif.

After Thor's visit, she certainly saw more of the consultation side of Loki's practice. A great number of their visitors were indeed academics, both students and luminaries, who paid handsomely to have Loki read their work or listen to their theories and then savage them. She knew only a little about magic, but she was coming to realize that he was astonishingly gifted in his field. He would have to be—no one would put up with him otherwise, not with that sharp tongue and the restless mind behind it.

She started taking notes for him; he never asked her to vacate the living room when he conducted business, and it was either that or watch terrible episodes of _EastEnders_ with the sound off and the captioning on.

"What are you doing?" he asked one day. Today's bathrobe was maroon with a subtle stripe. There was a distractingly large hole above his left cuff.

Sif gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and stuck her pen through it to hold it in place. "Taking notes," she said. "Sometimes you don't collect payment, did you realize?"

He waved a hand at her. "It's hardly as if I need money anymore," he said. "Whether they pay me, that's inconsequential."

"And Mrs Selvig agrees with that?" Sif asked.

He huffed and then, remarkably, smiled at her. "Yes, all right. Thank you. I shall endeavor to pay more attention to my bookkeeping."

"I don't mind," Sif said, and to her surprise, she didn't. She even kept the case notes; sometimes, late at night, she booted up Loki's computer and looked up the terms she didn't understand. It was rare for her to follow all the complexities of his problems, but she was learning enough to catch the gist.

"Hm," he said. "You should leave your hair down."

"What?" said Sif.

"Nothing. Nevermind," said Loki.

So life puttered along at Baker Street. Sif started visiting Mrs Selvig for conversation and to catch up on _EastEnders_; she went to her appointments, kept to her physical therapy, and started writing again. There was nothing exciting to write, or not much of it, but she was entertaining a vague thought of keeping a blog. 'The London Vet's Guide to Civilian Life in London' or something silly like that—Heimdall would like it, at any rate.

Between the academics came a parade of other magically-inclined personages: occult creature specialists, astrologists, thaumaturgical engineers, smiths of enchanted weapons, architects of illusions, and alchemists, always alchemists. They started to run together in Sif's head—all of them a bit absent, all of them a bit arrogant—but not even when his clients begged did Loki leave their flat. He went out every now and then on mysterious errands, and, more rarely, to procure food, but for his work he would barely deign to stir from his chair.

And then, one day, he sat bolt upright and said, "Get dressed."

"Say what?" Sif said. By the time she extracted herself from the cat on her lap, Loki was back and clad in the impeccably tailored and impossibly expensive slacks that seemed to be his battle dress. He'd paired the slacks with a white shirt—French cuffs, of course—and a dove-grey waistcoat. Sif, still in a borrowed maroon bathrobe, was caught entirely off-guard when someone came up the stairs. Two someones, in fact.

"You have a case?" Loki demanded.

"I have a case," said one of the someones. She had hard eyes and a dark cloud of hair, and in that way reminded Sif of herself. "Sorry. Detective Inspector Kate Bishop—this is my forensic sorcerer, William Kaplan. And you are—?"

"This," said Loki, "is Sif. So tell me—summoning? Haunting? Blood magic? Theft?"

"Murder," said Bishop, a wry turn to her mouth. "Sorry, Ms—Ms Sif, we're from Scotland Yard."

"More accurately, the Magical Crime Directorate," said Loki. "But what _manner_ of murder?"

"Ms Sif, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to—"

"It's Ms Chambers," Loki interrupted, "and don't be absurd. She'll be coming with me."

"I will?" said Sif. The sorcerer, Kaplan, laughed, although he at least had the grace to try to hide it.

"You know what, fine," said Bishop. "Drag her along if you have to, but be at the station in thirty minutes—it looks like necromancy to me, but there are three bodies to inspect. Possibly a fourth. You've read the papers?"

Loki ignored her.

"Of course you've read the papers," Bishop said. "Look, this is weird enough to hold even your interest. Will you come?"

"I'll come," Loki promised. He was staring at the stuffed magpie across the room as he shrugged into his long, mustard-colored coat. "Sif, you'd better put on some trousers."

Sif grinned. "I suppose so," she said.

"And bring your gun and sword. You still have…?"

"Both. Enchanted with the standard set of runes."

"Good," said Loki. "Bring those. Leave the bathrobe. The game, my lady, is on!"


End file.
